Page 84 of The Starving Saints
“But I have made it beautiful,” the False Lady says. Her foot moves. For a moment, Voyne is free, but she can’t make sense of direction enough to fight. Instead, she is lifted into Her lap. A coddled creature. Mind its little fangs, its shrill bark; it thinks it is so much larger than reality.
She can hear the faint buzzing of bees. It grows and grows. A hive is gathering. She forces herself to look around. She cannot allow herself to slip away, not again.
The Absolving Saint enters, the shadows parting to admit him. From this angle, she can see their teeth, like slashes of white paint or bird shit on stone. The saint bears a platter. He brings it to his Mistress, kneeling to lay it by Her side.
The False Lady reaches out and plucks a dainty from the dish. It looks for all the world like a bloom nestled between two lips. Butwhen she blinks again, the lips are the convolutions of a mushroom, and it is the bloom that is made of peels of flesh.
Another blink, and it is pastry and fruit.
“Will you not eat something?” She says, and holds it to Voyne’s mouth.
“And was this carved from Leodegardis as well?” she whispers, stomach heaving. She thinks again of the stump of his arm, and the pearlescent wrist bones on the platter the Absolving Saint last presented her with.
He is a skilled cook. Does he seek to disguise what he has made, or to rarify it?
It would taste good, she knows. So good, so easy, so succulent. A perfect bite, and the moment she swallowed, it would wipe away all the agony of her resistance. Her tongue along lips, the pantomime of a kiss—but if they are his, those lips carry with them the vows he asked of her.
Trust in Phosyne.
Protect the people.
She keeps her mouth firmly shut.
“Not him,” the Absolving Saint says, but too late to sway her; she has taken the strength she needs. She glares at him and pictures herself flaying his own lips away. His teeth are white when he speaks, too clean and perfect to be anything but fake. “I intend to savor him; he is not to be so quickly used up.”
“And neither are you,” the False Lady purrs.
“Your dogs don’t seem to know that,” Voyne spits, jerking her chin toward the door to the throne room. Those sharpened figments, those painted vicious shadows, crowd it.
“You cannot begrudge a beast its nature,” the Absolving Saint replies. “Or its joys. Why should they not frolic, like the people of Aymar we have rescued for you?”
She tries to surge up, to snap her own teeth at him, but she’s too weak. The False Lady’s hold is too firm.
“You need your strength,” the False Lady coos as She guides Voyne’s attention back with a touch. She leans back and pulls at the fabric of Her robes, until Her breast is bared. Voyne can’t look away.She stares as the monster draws one fingernail across the alabaster flesh, parts it like a fleece.
Instead of blood, golden honey oozes forth. It drips down, coats what is almost, but not quite, a nipple, a strange knot of rosy, shining flesh.
“Eat,” She says, softly. Her other hand cups the back of Voyne’s head. “Drink. Let me nourish you.”
Voyne turns away. She wants to snarl in threat, or to retch in horror, but the honey smells so good, rich and sweet, so sweet—
Was this how Phosyne felt, when Voyne pressed her to eat the comb?
“You trust in the little mouse to fetch you home again, don’t you?” the False Lady murmurs. “Just drink, and allow yourself two masters. We both want to cultivate you, Ser Voyne. You have room enough in you for both.”
“I know what loyalty is,” Voyne bites out, because only the abstraction of duty can help her.
“You do so enjoy your suffering,” the monster says. Her nails scrape over Voyne’s scalp, sharp enough to make her gasp. “I thought death your art, but now I find myself reconsidering. You have learned the many gradations of pain, I think, receiving and giving, and you still search for yourself within it all. I thought to give you a life free of pain, but that was never what you wished for, was it? Even gentleness is pain for you.”
Her words slide home, a misericord between the ribs. It galls her, drives her to argue, but she fights the urge. Another trick; this is another way to bring her defenses down. She would not be so focused on her if She were not frightened, if Voyne did not pose some threat.
(Or perhaps She only plays with Her food, the same way the shadows on the stairs did.)
The beast moves beneath Voyne, rolls her. A slip and blink and then Voyne is on the floor. The False Lady hauls her up to her knees, and Voyne can see now that she is within reach of the throne. Behind it must be her sword. A little farther; she has passed the test. She is so close.
“Stay here,” the Lady says into her ear, hands sliding along Voyne’sshoulders and then disappearing entirely. “Stay, and hope the little mouse remembers you exist. She has so many new and lovely worlds to explore—for you must know, I have shown her such wondrous sights.”
And then She is gone, and Voyne can hear nothing but the waiting breath of painted faces and the buzzing hum of bees.
